


When the Bullet Leaves the Gun

by aphroditeLife



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Acoma, Divorce, Hospitalization, M/M, Multi, Sad, Severe Injury, feels will be broken, realized feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:57:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphroditeLife/pseuds/aphroditeLife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Sherlock is shot to save his blogger's life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Bullet Leaves the Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, let me know if i should continue this or not, im not sure if i should, so any comment would help.

Sherlock was racing towards an abandoned warehouse, his coat billowing behind him and Lastrade's footsteps echoing from somewhere behind him. His mind worked in over drive as he tried to remember how to get to the bloody place. Turning a corner he skidded to a halt in front of a tall steel building. This was the place.  
He entered silently, looking around the nearly empty space for any signs of life. A moment later he heard a pair of voices coming from the upper levels. Slinking up the stairs, he was quick to find the source- a partially closed off space with several columns rising up from the floor and stretching to the ceiling. On one of the columns, he saw the man he was searching for, bound sturdily and with a gun pointed at him.  
Sherlock slinked steadily closer to him, being sure to stay in the shadows to stay unnoticed. He listened intently to the conversation, a shot of ice entering his veins.  
"He is going to come I hope you know," muttered the blonde man, his voice breaking slightly as he spoke.  
He was battered and bruised, blood dripping down his face from several lacerations and what appeared to be a broken nose, similar stains adorned his slashed jumper, and his head hanging down as though in defeat.  
"Dear god John, what have they done to you?" Sherlock thought to himself as he looked upon the bloodied man.  
"Oh won't he now? Well if he doesn't the consequences for you will be quite... Unpleasant," the man said, his voice smooth and falsely sweet as poised honey.  
The man holding the gun laughed wickedly, though his face was shrouded from the shadow of a tipped fedora with a dagger lain over a rose. Immediately upon looking at the man, a plethora of items popped into Sherlock's mind. Roughly 6 feet tall. Sturdy build, farmers tan, dirt beneath nails and smeared across the back of his hands. Suggests he has spent much time outdoors. Weight leaned into his right leg, slight red tint on inner left pant leg, less than neat stitches within the stain. Injured by some sort of laceration, somewhat old, has attempted to wash out. Gun steadily held, hand placement spot on, slight signs of hesitation. Experience in this sort of work. Conclusion, assassin, one of his first assignments. Fedora in such a fashion as his indicated 'Circulus Autem Peccatoribus Rosa', one of the elite group of killers that was centred in London.  
Sherlock was snapped out of his thoughts when the man once again began to speak.  
"Hmm, well Watson, it appears that you where wrong. Time has run out for the detective to come to your rescue. Too bad, you where such fun to play with." The man chuckled and raised the gun, pointing it straight at John's heart.  
Sherlock tensed, watching for a moment then sprinting forward as the muscles in the man's hand began to move, taking one, two, three bullets to the torso. Another gunshot rang out, this one ringing through the air and into the assassin's head. This time, the bullet had come from Lestrade, who stood just inches inside of the door, and was just seconds short of preventing the event.  
The shots seemed to have broken John out of his defeated trance, because his head shot up and he chocked on air. "S-Sherlock?" He chocked out.  
The consulting detective looked back at him, giving him a small smile before he fell, as though in slow motion onto his back. John yelled Sherlock's name, straining against his bounds and tears falling down his face.  
Lestrade ran towards the two of them and pulled out a knife, cutting the rope around John's wrists then pulled out his cell and phoned an ambulance. It took no more than a second for John to come to a kneeling position beside Sherlock and taking his hand. A tinge of fear could be seen in the other's eyes as he looked up at the doctor. "J-ohn..." He said, his voice shaky, "I-I have to tell you someth-thing."  
Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut as another wave of pain hit him, but he forced himself to calm and to not become panicked.  
"You c-can say anything, j-just hang on okay? The ambulance s-should be here any t-time," John said, hiccuping slightly and trying in vane to hold back sobs.  
"I-I love you, Jo-ohn..." He said, his eyes closing.  
"Sherlock?" John says, his throat tightening  
"Sherlock d-don't you dare leave m-me, not after saying s-something like that, don't you d-are!" He sobbed at the detective, his tears falling faster.  
"Sherlock, p-please, don't leave m-me alone."  
As John spoke, Sherlock's grip steadily grew weaker and weaker, until his hand slipped away from John's. It was this that truly sent John over the edge.  
"S-Sherlock!" He said, shaking him slightly, all sense flying away from him.  
"Sherlock!!!" He yelled, his voice echoing across the space and causing Lestrade to wheel around.  
John picked Sherlock up and held him, rocking him back and forth. "I-it's all my fault, it's a-all my fault." He whispered over and over again, refusing to let go, even as he heard the sirens wail in the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the first chapter of this story, so please don't freak out too badly.


End file.
